


your soul fits where mine feels empty

by wishingonalightningbolt



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Derek, Canon Compliant, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Idiots in Love, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 15:18:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7513226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishingonalightningbolt/pseuds/wishingonalightningbolt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He pulls open the door without knocking and gets half a step inside the loft before he notices.  Derek—lying on his bed—face down—naked. </p>
<p>-0-</p>
<p>Stiles gets an eyeful. Things go downhill from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if anyone needs to read this but I felt like I needed to write it.
> 
> I was on a plane in January, going back to school after Winter Break with my family, and I spent all four and a half hours thinking about Derek Hale's heart. It's fragile but not totally shattered and he's capable of so much love, so much affection. He's scared to use it because he doesn't know how it's going to turn out in the end.
> 
> Naturally, to my plot-what-plot brain, this turned into what was originally around five thousand words of smut, plotless, a little bit angsty, that showed Derek using his body the way he always has, getting what he wants without actually letting it touch him - really touch him.
> 
> Five thousand words wasn't enough. I needed Stiles to really, really touch him.
> 
> Again, I don't know if anyone in the world needs to read this, but my brain really needed me to write it. It hasn't left me alone for six months. Thanks, if you bothered to read this very strange entry note, and thanks even more for reading the next 19,000 words.
> 
> PLEASE BE AWARE that if I were more crude of a person, this fic could very easily be titled: Derek Hale is a Big Fat Bottom. There's a lot of Bottom!Derek in this; don't say you weren't warned.

Halfway through writing his final paper for his History of Mythology course, Stiles realizes that he left his source material in Derek’s loft.  Stiles came home early for the summer because he only has this one paper that just needs an electronic submission, and when the whole pack was at Derek’s the other day, he had been working on it a bit.  But now the paper is due in five hours and the only way it’s going to make any sense at all is if he has his text—which is how he ends up in Derek’s building at 6:30 on a Friday night, when he would much rather be having dinner with his dad or playing video games with Scott or anything else besides this stupid fucking paper.

He pulls open the door without knocking and gets half a step inside the loft before he notices.  Derek—lying on his bed—face down—naked.  His face is buried in his own pillow, his left hand curled under his stomach, no doubt jerking himself off, while his right hand manipulates a big, navy blue dildo that Derek is currently pushing deeper and deeper inside of himself with a low, eager moan.  And he—he has no idea that Stiles is there.  Derek is masturbating—quite creatively, Stiles might add—and he has no idea that Stiles is there.  That Stiles is watching.

Derek’s hips pump, shoulders straining, and he sighs, soft and sweet like he’s getting a fucking massage or something, and Stiles realizes with a start that he’s _staring_ at a grown werewolf get himself off.  He turns and runs before he can stop himself, tripping over his own feet in his haste to get out, and he knows that he definitely made some squeaking noise, some desperately apologetic yelp as he turned towards the stairs and fucking bailed.

He can’t stop replaying in his head on the way home, the way Derek was arched, the way he was sweating, the _noises_ he was making.  Stiles is so fucking hard that he has to limp up to his bedroom and jerk off with his back against the door because he can’t wait another fucking second.

It isn’t until he’s cleaning himself up with tissues that he remembers he forgot the fucking textbook.

* * *

 

When Derek Hale drops in through his window the next night, Stiles is almost certain he’s time travelled.  Derek is slightly more normal now—he comes in through the front door when he needs something, and he’s polite to Stiles’ dad and, sure, he and Stiles don’t really get along per se, but they’re not so much mortal enemies anymore.  So this regression in behavior is worrying for about three seconds, before Stiles remembers.

“Oh, shit,” he says, jumping up from his bed.  “Okay, dude, it was a totally innocent mistake—I needed my textbook.  And you never lock your door.  And seriously, I really needed that textbook, and so I came over and then you were—you were—”

“Stiles.”

“It wasn’t like I did it on purpose or anything, you know?  Because you definitely should masturbate more if your mood is any indication, and so it’s a good thing, you know?  To get your, uh, groove on with yourself, um, and any other objects you may choose to use—”

“Stiles,” Derek says again.  “Shut up.”

Stiles bites the inside of his mouth for a second, considering.  He should wait, see what Derek has to say, but.  “It’s just—this goes against all of the bro rules.  Like, me and Scott, I’ve seen his dick, sure, but I’ve never seen it— _in action_.  Not that I saw your dick!  Because I didn’t.  I mean, not the one attached to you.  The other one, the blue one, I saw that.”  He laughs, a little hysterically.  “Give a whole new meaning to ‘blue balls’, huh?”

Derek blinks.  “Stiles.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re hard.”

He glances down at where he’s bulging through his khakis.  “Yeah,” he says weakly.  “Yeah, that’s a reflex now.  You should probably leave because in about three seconds I’m about to combust out of embarrassment and take the whole house down with me.”

“Stiles.”

“You’re saying that a lot.”

“Because you won’t stop talking.”

“What is it?” Stiles asks, sure that his whole face is pink in a blotchy blush.

“You can say no.”

“What?”

“You can say no,” Derek says again, and he takes a few steps forward until he’s standing right in front of Stiles.  “Okay?”

Stiles swallows.  “I can say no.  To—to what?”

Derek doesn’t drop his eyes from Stiles’, but Stiles can feel Derek’s hands come up and unbutton his pants, slowly, methodically, easing his fingers between the waistband and the skin of Stiles’ hips.  He gets one big, warm hand into Stiles’ underwear, and Stiles’ mouth falls open as Derek takes his cock into his palm and just holds him.

“Oh,” Stiles says.

“Sit,” Derek says, and Stiles does, sitting at the foot of his bed without a second thought.  Derek doesn’t lose his grip, though, falling to his knees between Stiles’ legs, left hand spread out over Stiles’ thigh.  “Lie back.”

“Um.”

“Do it.”

He does, collapsing with his back flat on the mattress, arms flung out to either side.  He stares at his ceiling and thinks about how fucking weird this all is while Derek lets go of his dick to yank down his pants and underwear almost to his knees.  He pulls on Stiles’ hips, pulls them off the bed and lets Stiles’ knees rest on his shoulders, and Stiles is so hard he’s going to lose his _mind_ —

Derek runs his thumb over the head of Stiles’ cock.  A bit of pre-come escapes and Stiles moans reflexively, wanting so badly to arch into the touch, to try to get more friction, but he doesn’t move.  He can’t.

“You can say no,” Derek repeats once more, and Stiles whines, shakes his head.

“I’m not saying no,” he says, heart pounding in his ears.  “Derek—please—”

When Derek sucks him down, it’s not like it’s a surprise.  He assumed, given the position Derek manipulated him into, that this is what it would lead to, but—it’s still shocking.  It’s still overwhelming.  It still makes him cry out and throw his hands into his hair and do his best not to fuck Derek’s face like some oversensitive teenager who’s never had someone touch his dick before.  So he stays still and whines like a child and tries not to think about Derek bobbing up and down on his cock, slobbering and sucking and taking him deep into his throat.  He tries not to think about Derek licking him from base to tip and sliding the point of his tongue into the slit, about Derek’s left hand cupping his balls firmly as Derek takes him all the way into his throat with one swallow.

He has no idea, no fucking clue, how this went from him explaining away his stupidity to getting his dick worshipped by Derek Hale.  But he isn’t looking to question it, not now, not while he’s seconds away from coming.

He says Derek’s name when he feels his orgasm threatening him, teetering at the edge in his stomach, warning him.  Derek, unsurprisingly, pulls his mouth off of Stiles and says, “Don’t.”

“What?” Stiles asks.  “I won’t come on you, it’s fine—”

“No,” Derek says.  “Don’t come yet.”

Stiles whines weakly.  “Derek.”

In response, Derek slides his right hand along Stiles’ knee as he nuzzles against the soft skin of his inner thigh, biting gently as he goes.  “You can wait; I know you can.”

“Fucking sadist.”

“You’ll thank me later.”  He continues the path of his right hand, up around Stiles’ ass cheek, which he palms thoughtfully, and under his thigh, right behind his balls, where he carefully presses his thumb against Stiles’ perineum, rolling little circles into the skin.

Stiles jerks like he’s been shocked, the little ministrations of Derek’s thumb sending waves of pleasure through him, coupled with the fact that Derek has returned to sucking him down over and over and over again.  He knows, logically, that Derek’s simply massaging his prostate from the outside, that this is a thing plenty of guys do on a regular basis, and yet, to him, it feels like some kind of magic, and he never wants it to stop.

He keeps himself from coming by sheer force of will, so eager to keep feeling these crashing waves of vibrating pleasure from his core.  He clings to the edge for as long as he fucking can but soon, he’s trying to shove Derek away with his last few moments of clarity.  Derek doesn’t go, grips Stiles’ thigh with his left hand and sucks him down with a slurp and Stiles comes, crying out as his whole world goes white.

When he can feel his own limbs again, he hurries into a seated position and grabs Derek’s face, pulling him into a sloppy kiss.  He can feel Derek’s stubble under his fingers, Derek’s soft lips under his, Derek’s tongue with the sharp taste of Stiles’ come poking into his mouth as he kisses back just as eagerly.

“Let me get you off,” Stiles insists, already dragging his hands down Derek’s chest, nearing his waistband.  “I’m good at it, I promise.”

“It’s fine,” Derek says, voice thick and rough.  Stiles nearly moans, wants to bask in the fact that _he did that_ to Derek.

“C’mon, I want to—”

“I gotta get going,” Derek tells him, but he drags Stiles back in for another filthy kiss, one that he feels all the way down to his toes.  “Knock next time you come to the loft.”

Stiles snorts.  “Yeah, right.”

* * *

 

There’s a pack meeting a few days later.  Stiles sits out in the parking lot of Derek’s building, sits in his Jeep with his knee bouncing up and down until Scott pulls in on his bike.  He cannot and should not be alone with Derek any time in the near future.  If Stiles had gone up there without supervision, there’s no telling what he might have done.

So he follows Scott and keeps his hands in his pockets and doesn’t think about the fact that, somewhere in Derek’s apartment, there is a big, blue dildo that occasionally makes itself at home in Derek’s ass.  Scott elbows him sharply, standing beside him in the elevator.

“Dude,” he says.

Stiles clears his throat.  “Sorry.”

The meeting is short and sweet, checking in, talking about border patrols for the week.  Stiles sits there, silently, staring at a spot on the floor and thinking about Coach Finstock’s grandma skinny dipping to try to keep his head out of the clouds.

When it’s over, he jumps to his feet and nearly sprints for the door.  Except Derek calls his name, and his heart lurches into his throat.

“You need something?” Scott asks, hesitating in the doorway.  Everyone else has already escaped.  It’s summer.  It’s beautiful outside.  They all have things to do, people to see.  Even Scott is trying to hurry because today is Kira’s first day off of work in two weeks.

“It’s fine,” Stiles says.  “Go on, I’ll see you later.”

Scott pulls the door closed behind himself and Stiles turns to face Derek, standing in the middle of his apartment with his arms crossed over his chest.  Stiles doesn’t speak.  He doesn’t move.  He barely blinks.  So they stand in a silence so deafening that Stiles wants to put in earplugs.  They stand there for a long, heavy moment—and then Derek has him pressed against the door, Stiles’ legs wrapped firmly around his waist, their mouths locked together, and Stiles has no idea which one of them moved first.

He groans, dragging his nails down the back of Derek’s neck.  “Fuck,” he whines.  “God—your fucking mouth.”

“You’re so easy,” Derek tells him, rolling their hips together.  “Already rock hard, in fucking _seconds_.”  He presses his weight more firmly into Stiles’, manages to grind his dick right against Stiles’ as he moves, and Stiles can’t help but moan, grinding right back.

“It’s because I can’t stop thinking about it,” Stiles confesses.  Hearing the words out loud, _saying_ them out loud sends a spark right to his cock.  Derek makes a soft noise, and Stiles’ heart surges.  “I can’t stop thinking about fucking you, Derek—I can’t stop thinking about spreading you open with my fingers and putting you on my cock, watching you lose it, watching you _love_ it.”

Derek drops his forehead to Stiles’ collarbone.  “ _Stiles_.”  He says it softly, lowly, like he’s asking for something.  Like he’s pleading.

It fuels Stiles on, makes him bolder, more confident than he’s ever been with sex.  “I would’ve been so good to you the other day, would’ve done whatever you’d asked of me.  I wanted to—I wanted to see you spread out on my bed, moaning into my pillow while I fucked you slowly, left bruises on your hips from holding you so tightly.”

“That’s how you want me, huh?” Derek encourages, tilting his head to kiss the base of Stiles’ throat, wet and careless.

Stiles bites his lip, tries to think about it through the warm haze of Derek against him.  “No—not the first time.  The first time, I want to see your face.  I want to see the way your eyes blink closed and your mouth falls open.  I want to see what you look like when your breathing hitches the first time I push inside of you, and I want to see you squirm on my cock as we fuck—all—night—long.”

Derek’s breathing is faster now, his heart thudding against his chest.  Stiles can feel it against his muscles, feel it in his skin, the way he touches Stiles, the way he pulls Stiles’ hips closer.

“You should come,” Stiles decides, “so that I can fuck you.  You’re gonna come, right now, and I’m gonna fuck you until you’re hard again and you’re gonna come all over me again—and again.  I’m gonna make you come so many goddamn times, Derek.”

Stiles doesn’t even know if Derek is listening anymore.  He’s grinding against Stiles fitfully, leaning into Stiles’ throat.  He’s making soft, tentative noises, and his dick is so hard against Stiles’ hip that it could practically cut diamonds.

“Derek,” Stiles coos, “c’mon, you’re gonna come for me, right?  You’re gonna come right here, right against me, in your fucking jeans—yeah, Derek, c’mon.”  He digs his heels into Derek’s thighs, arches against him.  “So good for me, Derek, so fucking good—can’t wait to watch you lose it while I’m inside you, while I’m filling you up just like you need—”

Derek snarls when he comes, claws poking out against Stiles’ legs as he loses it, shuddering like a racehorse in Stiles’ arms, a soft, heartbroken noise escaping his throat.  Stiles stays still, petting Derek’s hair and kissing his temple.  When Derek lifts his head a moment later, Stiles could eat him up with a spoon.

“You should let me down now,” Stiles decides.  “So that I can put my dick in you.”

Derek’s chuckle shakes his shoulders.  It’s ridiculously endearing.  “I like you like this,” Derek tells him.  “Trapped.  At my mercy.”

“Says the guy who just came in his jeans from a little frottage,” Stiles points out.  “Who’s at whose mercy here exactly?”

“I’m gonna jerk you off now.”

“What about the—”

Derek kisses him quiet, unbuttoning his jeans and pulling his cock out of his boxer shorts.  Stiles would protest, but he kind of loses all higher language function when Derek’s trying to make him come, so he decides it’s for the best to just sit back and let Derek destroy him.

It’s a good handjob, the kind that’s slow and torturous, the kind that makes his toes curl and his heart thud, the kind that comes with sweet kisses and soft bites on his neck.  It doesn’t take long for him to come, to moan softly into Derek’s mouth as he shoots all over Derek’s hand.

He can barely keep his eyes open afterwards, even as Derek licks a few of his fingers clean and wipes the excess off on Stiles’ shirt.  He grumbles in protest, but he has to cling to Derek a second later as he pulls them off of the wall and carries Stiles into the apartment to deposit him on the bed.

“I can’t stay,” Stiles says.  “I’m supposed to have dinner with my dad.”

“Uh huh,” Derek says, pulling Stiles’ shirt up and over his head.

“I mean it.  I can’t stay.”

“What time do you have to be home?”

“Six.”

“Okay.”  He kneels at Stiles’ feet, grabs onto his shoes and tosses them towards the door.  Stiles watches, too tired to tell Derek to cut it out.  “Take a nap,” he says, and he shoves Stiles’ shoulders down.  “I’ll wake you in time to get to dinner.”

“Where are you going?” Stiles asks, even as he curls up with one of Derek’s pillows. 

“I’m gonna take a shower.  Remember—I’m the one with come drying in his underwear.”

* * *

 

Derek should probably feel a little guilty about jerking off in the shower right after having sex with Stiles.  It’s not like it was bad sex.  It was good sex—Stiles has a way with words, especially filthy ones, and it was easy to get roped in by the way he was talking, the things he was saying about fucking Derek, about making it good for him.  It was easy to come.  It was good sex.

But only a few minutes after dropping Stiles in bed and getting into the shower, he’s half hard again, leaning into the hot spray as he thinks about Stiles’ ridiculous mouth, about Stiles’ cock in his hand, in his mouth, the way it felt in Stiles’ room the other day, to take him apart like that.

He’s a mess.  He’s a mess over a teenager with long fingers and a pretty dick and a complete inability to keep his fantasies to himself.  He probably would’ve gone his whole life without putting his dick anywhere near Stiles Stilinski—he would’ve stayed away until the kid had grown up and moved on, found other people, found other obsessions—and now.  Now that’s ruined.

He leans against the cool tile in the shower, a stark contrast to the heat of the water.  He has his lube already out because he needs this.  He hasn’t fingered himself in a week, ever since Stiles barged in on him.  He’s been too nervous, too on edge, but he needs it.  So he leans, and he sighs softly as he presses two fingers into himself, his cock throbbing for attention already.

“Fuck,” he says lowly, moving his fingers carefully to start.  There’s no use rushing, not when he has all the time in the world. 

He can picture it with Stiles.  If he’s being honest, he’s been picturing it for a lot longer than anyone would guess, but now…  Now it’s so much more real, and that makes him simultaneously terrified and thrilled, because he doesn’t have to feel like a creep when he imagines that it’s Stiles beside him, fucking him open with two—then three—fingers, breathing against his neck as he opens Derek up just to feel the heat of his body, just to watch him come.

He teases himself for a little while, works at his prostate until he’s moments from coming and then backs off.  He repeats that, again and again, milking that oversensitive gland until he thinks he’s going to explode—and retreating, just before he can lose it, because it’s so worth it.  The buildup makes him achingly hard, makes how tight his balls feel and how lightheaded he is so worth it because when he finally does let himself come, he sees stars.

He sets an alarm for five-thirty and crawls into bed beside the snoozing Stiles, spooning him without a second thought.  The boy huffs in his sleep, leaning back into Derek’s chest, and Derek presses his face into Stiles’ hair and falls asleep almost instantly.

* * *

 

The thing about Derek is that he likes cock.  He wasn’t sure that he did in high school, and then his family died and he didn’t think about sex at all for a long time.  Sex was only a punishment, only a thing that reminded him that his family was gone, and that his relationship with Kate was the reason why.

But then, after that, after he got over his fucked up notions about sexuality and his dick being cursed, there was Jeremy.  He was funny and kind and he lived next door to Derek and Laura in New York.  He went to NYU.  He checked in on them, brought them coffee most mornings.  He was twenty-one to Derek’s eighteen and it didn’t matter because Derek didn’t _like_ him, not like that, but when Jeremy kissed him on New Year’s Eve, Derek knew he didn’t have to like Jeremy to like his body.

He got his first vibrator from a shitty sex shop on the corner of his block.  He couldn’t use it while Laura was in the apartment, had to wait until she was at work and he had moments alone.  There were other toys, other dildos that he played with, that he tried.  He spent an entire month’s paycheck from working at the used bookstore across the street on various penis-shaped items.  And he loved it.

Then he forgot, again, because he moved back to Beacon Hills with nothing but Laura’s Camaro and his dad’s old leather jacket.  He had money, but he didn’t need anything.  Except a pack.

He forgot, until hooking up with Jennifer had made him remember.

After Jennifer, there was this guy named Keith.  They met at Jungle, went back to Keith’s apartment and Derek rode him on the floor in front of the couch.  It was slow, tense, because as much as Derek had experimented in his youth with things made of plastic, flesh was an entirely different animal.  They saw each other a few more times, but Keith didn’t _get_ it.  He wasn’t willing to just sit there while Derek bounced on his cock for an hour, wasn’t willing to wait while Derek angled himself properly to get his prostate.  He was impatient and a boring lay, and Derek had gotten what he needed anyway: experience.

He’s picky.  He needs someone who smells good, who isn’t too overbearing, who lets him do what he wants and isn’t scared of him.  He needs someone who’s willing to try the things he likes, who’s eager to participate when asked and just as happy to standby otherwise.  He needs someone like Stiles.

* * *

 

Stiles comes over on Wednesday afternoon with a pizza and a bottle of Jack Daniels that he obviously stole from his father.  “I got Satomi’s beta to give me his method of diluting wolfsbane in alcohol so that you guys can feel the effects, and since you’re the biggest masochist of the group, I figured I should bring it over to you to try.”

“I don’t drink whiskey,” Derek says, standing from where he was lounging on his bed to join Stiles on the couch.  “I’ll eat the pizza, though.”

“This is primetime pizza, Derek,” Stiles informs him, flipping open the lid.  “Domino’s, every kind of protein you could possibly want, extra garlic in the crust seasoning because you secretly love it, extra large because you’re a fucking werewolf.  I’m expecting so many blowjobs in return for this.”

“Okay,” Derek says easily, and he kisses Stiles’ jaw affectionately before grabbing a slice.  “What’s the occasion?”

“Hm?”

“Why the pizza?  And the booze?”

Stiles chews thoughtfully.  “I thought maybe me coming over and then, you know, _coming_ might have made you feel like a cheap date.  So, pizza.”

“I don’t feel like a cheap date.  And if I did, the fifteen dollars you spent on this pizza would not be the thing to turn it around.  Besides,” he continues as he takes a huge bite, “it was one time.”

“What was?”

“That you came over and came on my hand and fell asleep in my bed,” Derek says, chest warming at the simple memory.  “And I liked it,” he adds.  “But I appreciate the gesture.”

“Sure it happened once,” Stiles says, “but it’s gonna happen again.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Right now, probably.  And probably later in the week.  And probably after the next pack meeting.  And, you know what, I’m gonna put some money down on the full moon actually, because I’ve seen Scott on full moons, and he clings to Kira like a literal puppy.”  He leans back against the couch, puts his feet up on the coffee table.  “I’m gonna turn on the TV.”

Derek nods distractedly.  His wolf is currently preening at the attention from Stiles—Stiles brought him food; Stiles wants to have sex with him; Stiles wants to be in his home.  He could howl with satisfaction right now, but instead he eats pizza and watches some brightly colored Cartoon Network program.

When the pizza is three-fourths of the way gone and Stiles’ fingers are sticky with grease and Derek is full, he brings Stiles a damp paper towel and knocks the boy’s legs apart, falling to his knees on the hardwood floor.

“Whoa, hey,” Stiles starts to say, but Derek ignores him, unbuttoning his jeans, pulling out his cock.  He’s cut, a good length, soft and silky and pretty.  Derek likes watching him fatten up in his hand, watching him get hard as Derek strokes him.  He presses his thumb right under the head and Stiles moans softly, says, “Fuck.”

“You can fuck my mouth,” Derek tells him, tilting his head so he can put his tongue against the base of his cock, drag it up over the shaft.  He tastes like salty skin, like sex, like Stiles.  “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says shakily.  “Yeah, okay, I—yeah.”

“Don’t get pizza grease in my hair.”

It’s not slow.  Stiles stays still for a few minutes, clean fingers combing through Derek’s hair, clinging every once in a while.  His breathing is rushed, his heartbeat fast, but he doesn’t move.  Derek does his thing—he enjoys this, loves taking Stiles apart like this, breaking him down and building him back up again.  He loves taking Stiles’ cock into his throat, holding him at the base while he tastes every last inch of him, dragging his tongue along the length, teasing the slit, stroking him while he catches his breath.

When Derek takes him in again, Stiles’ hips roll tentatively, thrusting further into Derek’s mouth.  Derek takes it easily, opening up his throat to accompany the extra length, and Stiles releases a shuddering breath.

“Fuck, Derek,” he says, and his hands in Derek’s hair tighten.  “You’re so fucking hot.  You know I can’t stop jerking off—every time I have a few minutes alone, I can’t keep my hand off my dick, thinking about how goddamn hot you are, how good you feel against me, how hot and wet and perfect your mouth is.”

The words spread heat throughout his body, make his balls tighten.  He leans into Stiles’ hands on his head and is rewarded by Stiles thrusting again, deeper this time, more confident.  After that, Derek doesn’t have to move, can just keep his head still while Stiles does all the work, arching his hips over and over again, panting as he fucks Derek’s throat.

Derek is rock hard in his jeans—he likes giving blowjobs, knows that it turns him on, but this is so much more.  The asphyxiation combined with Stiles’ scent, with Stiles’ moans, with the heady knowledge that Stiles has never done this, that Derek is getting to see Stiles in a way no one else has ever seen him before—that’s what’s made him so hard he could burst through his zipper.

Stiles fists up Derek’s hair when he comes, head falling back against the cushions, groaning from deep in his chest.  Derek swallows all of it, licks Stiles clean until the boy is pushing him away from oversensitivity.  Derek mouths at his thighs instead, basking in Stiles’ afterglow, rubbing his nose and cheeks into his hairy legs while his chest glows with contentment.

“Stand up,” Stiles says, pushing at Derek’s shoulders halfheartedly.  “C’mon, stand up.”

So Derek does, knees popping as he rises.  Stiles tucks himself back into his jeans and grabs onto Derek’s hips, making him take a step forward so that his crotch is right in front of Stiles’ face.

“You’re gonna be patient with me, okay?” Stiles asks, unbuttoning Derek’s jeans.  “Because I’ve never done this and it will probably suck a little.”  He laughs quietly to himself, and Derek can hear him mutter, “Suck a little.  Classic.”

Derek rolls his eyes, palms the back of Stiles’ neck.  He wishes they could be on the bed, wishes Stiles would finger him open while he did this, but that might be too much for his first time.  If he hasn’t blown another guy, he definitely hasn’t fucked one, and trying to get him to do both at once would undoubtedly result in some kind of Stiles-shaped disaster.

Stiles makes a weak, broken noise when he pulls Derek’s cock from his boxer briefs.  Derek had forgotten, until this moment, that Stiles hasn’t actually seen him naked yet, didn’t know what he was signing up for.

“You don’t have to,” Derek tells him, and Stiles’ wraps a hand around Derek’s dick without saying a word.

Derek forgot what it was like, being in someone else.  It’s been a long time—Jennifer was the last, and he still doesn’t like to think about it.  With Stiles, it’s the same and different.  The same in that his pretty pink mouth is soft and hot on Derek’s dick, a little unsure but eager to please.  Different because Stiles is _Stiles_.  Different because Stiles is gripping Derek’s hip hard, just like he likes, is trying so hard to keep Derek in his mouth that he’s slobbering down his chin, is moaning while he sucks Derek’s cock because he _likes_ it, and Derek can feel his knees weakening just at the sound.

Stiles lifts his mouth away after a few minutes, peppers Derek’s hips with kisses as he yanks his waistband further down, down over his ass, halfway down his thighs.  He doesn’t say anything, but his cheeks are red with a blush, and instead of resettling his hands on Derek’s hips, he grabs the globes of Derek’s ass and takes him back into his mouth, fingers pressing so tightly against the skin that there will be ten little bruises for a few minutes afterwards.

Derek loves the imagery, loves that Stiles is silently telling him how much he loves Derek’s body.  He feels wholly appreciated, understood on a level he doesn’t think he’s ever reached with someone else before.

When he feels himself on the edge of coming, he pulls his cock from Stiles’ mouth and thumbs Stiles’ lower lip.  He looks disheveled, hair messy, mouth swollen and pink, pupils huge, drool bathing his chin.  Derek tucks his thumb into Stiles’ cheek.

“I’m gonna come down your throat,” he says, and Stiles’ hips make a small jerking motion.  He doesn’t give the boy any time to respond, fits himself into Stiles’ mouth again and lets him continue his attention to Derek’s cock.  He’s floating in that heavy space right before coming, where he knows it’s an inevitability, any fucking moment—and then Stiles’ right hand releases Derek’s ass and Stiles presses a dry finger right against his hole—and he comes with a cry, digging blunt nails into Stiles’ shoulder.

* * *

 

Stiles isn’t really an overachiever.  He’s always kind of done the least amount of work necessary to get him where he needs to be, and while he works hard within his role as a pack member, it’s not like he ever put unending hours of work into his academics or his summer jobs.  He’s smart and competent, stubborn but understanding, and he will often consider other viewpoints and opinions once he’s been bothered enough to do so.  So for the past few days, all Stiles has been thinking about is putting his fingers up his butt.

It’s not like he has to.  Derek likes it enough that Stiles will probably never have to bottom.  But if Stiles ever hopes to make Derek come his brains out, he should probably understand what he’s working with.  How can he know the best way to finger him if he doesn’t have a little experience already?  How can he understand what Derek is really _feeling_?

He has lube already—he fucking should, or else he’d be so chafed that he couldn’t put on underwear.  It only takes a quick Google search to confirm that he can use that stuff for more penetrative purposes, and then he just needs an afternoon with his dad out of the house and Derek distracted with other things.

He showers—thoroughly—and he has a towel on the bed and one sitting on the floor too, just in case.  He’s not hard at all when he locks his bedroom door and crawls onto his mattress.  He’s maybe a little nervous, unsure, but determined all the same.  His plan is to lie back and think of Derek, think about Derek’s mouth and his big hands and his pretty eyes.

He strokes himself first, tugging on his balls and letting his cock fill, jerking himself slow and simple, imagining that Derek is beside him, whispering to him all the terrible things Stiles is going to get to do to him as soon as he figures it all out.  It’s easy to get hard then, but what’s difficult is stopping himself before he comes, stopping so that he can do what he’s here to do.

One finger feels weird.  It’s an intrusion, and it’s a pain to focus on his overall bodily feelings rather than what it is his one little finger is feeling.  He breathes, kneeling in his bed, hand tucked behind himself.  He breathes, eyes closed, and start to squirm in his middle finger as well.

Two feel twice as weird, but in a different way.  It’s not good exactly, not yet, but it’s a more balanced weight, a better pressure, and it’s easier to breathe now, moving his fingers slowly in and out of himself.  The fiction is something at least.  It makes his cock twitch and his body shudder, but his dick is barely hard anymore.

He has to focus on thoughts of Derek.  He’s doing this for _Derek_.  So that he can make Derek lose his mind as he comes, make Derek see other fucking universes just from grinding on Stiles’ cock.  If he can enjoy this, he can make sure that Derek will.

He adds more lube to his fingers, takes some time to circle his hole and relax, explore the sensations.  By the time he’s riding two fingers, his dick is bouncing against his thigh, pre-come beading at the slit.  Three fingers feels easier.  His body swallows them up, and it burns at first, but he’s proud of himself because something _clicks._   He feels full.  He feels like his body is buzzing with some new kind of pleasure, and he gets it.  He understands why Derek would like this.

He’s taken science classes, understands biology and anatomy.  He’s read plenty of articles in his research for this moment and so he knows where his prostate gland is.  Preparing himself for what to do with it is an entirely different matter.  It takes him long, awkward minutes and a painful wrist rotation to even figure out how to get at it, and by then it feels—strange.  Good, but in a way that doesn’t match the rest of the sensations ringing through him.  It feels too heavy, in a way he doesn’t know how to appreciate.  He panics at the last second, pulling his fingers out.

He doesn’t see Derek that night. Derek doesn’t call and Stiles doesn’t go over.

The next morning, while his dad’s at work, he tries again.  He goes a little slower, keeps his left hand on his dick the whole time, and he gets a little farther.  He explores a little bit more, tries to play with his prostate.

He does it again the next day, and the day after that.  And then, the morning of the day of the pack meeting, he rides his fingers in his bed for no less than a half hour, comes so hard while he’s milking his prostate that it splashes against his chin.  He has to shower and scrub at his hands so Derek doesn’t know what he was doing, and he shows up to the loft fifteen minutes late.

By the end of the meeting, Derek has taken to staring at a spot on Stiles’ left ear like it’s the most interesting thing in the world, and Stiles’ stomach is twisted into knots.  When the apartment clears, Stiles is standing in the kitchen, drinking from a water glass, waiting until the door slides closed.

Derek walks towards him slowly, hands stuck in his pockets.  Stiles watches, patiently, until Derek comes to stop in front of him.  For two seconds, neither of them moves.  But Derek lifts a hand, cups Stiles’ jaw, and then they’re kissing, softly, Derek pressing him against the counter.

Stiles lifts his arms to wrap around Derek’s neck while they kiss.  Derek tilts his head away, towards Stiles’ neck, and licks across his Adam’s apple.

“Der,” Stiles says.

“Hm?”

He had been planning.  He _had plans_ , honestly, but right now…  Right now Derek is holding him so gently, kissing him so slowly, that he doesn’t want it to stop.  The fast and hard, the sloppy blowjobs, the intense orgasms—yeah, those are all very, very good things.  But right now Derek feels like a puzzle piece against him, and Stiles wants to bask in that for a little while.

“Can we lie down?” he asks.  “And just—kiss for a little while?”

In the back of his mind, he almost expects Derek to ask him to leave.  That wasn’t what Derek signed up for after all.  They’ve been building up to something, building up to something pretty intense, and there’s no reason Derek should want to slow down so that Stiles can have a lazy afternoon of kissing in a big bed with the sunset glowing from the big wall of windows.

But Derek doesn’t ask him to leave.  His eyes are soft and the corner of his mouth twitches up, almost like a smile, and he nods.  “Yeah,” he says.  “C’mon.”

They settle into bed easily, Stiles half on top of Derek, both of them curled together with their heads on pillows.  Derek kisses him, pulling him close, and Stiles lets himself revel in being close to Derek, lets him feel all warm and fuzzy about it.  They kiss for a long time, alternating between shallow, sweet kisses, and deep, eager ones that have Stiles’ dick straining in his jeans.

Even though they’re both hard, even though they can both _feel_ that they’re hard, neither of them move to do anything about it.  Stiles just wants to kiss him, and Derek seems more than willing to participate.  For over an hour, they just lie there, holding each other, and kissing.

Eventually, Derek dips his head to kiss Stiles’ neck and his stomach twists up pleasantly.  He drags his beard along Stiles’ throat as he says, “Do you wanna stay?”

Stiles nods.  “Yeah.  Yeah—please.”

Stiles gets up to shower a few minutes later, tiredness already sinking into his bones even though it’s only late afternoon.  Derek knocks softly on the bathroom door just after Stiles has stepped under the spray, and Stiles tells him to come in, leaning his head back so he can wash his hair.

“I ordered a pizza and a salad,” Derek tells him.  “It’ll be here in a half hour, but you can take a nap if you want.  I promise not to eat it all.”

Stiles hums.  “Okay.”  He pulls open the glass door, blinking at Derek.  “Join me?”

Derek mostly just stands close to him while he washes, dragging the loofa down his chest, between his thighs.  Derek stands pressed against his back, hands on his hips, mouth on his neck.  He’s perfectly patient, unmoving, and eventually Stiles hands him the soapy loofa and says, “Do my back.”

He’s slow, methodical, still kissing Stiles’ neck but now dragging his hands all along his body.  His touch is electric, even to Stiles’ exhausted senses, and he can’t help but lean back into him, reaching a hand around to tangle in Derek’s hair.

A shift in his weight causes Derek’s cock to press between Stiles’ ass cheeks, hot and firm against him.  Derek is quick to pull back, but Stiles whimpers.

“You can,” he says quietly, wrapping a hand around his own cock.  “You can do—do whatever—touch me—”

Derek drops the loofa to the shower floor with a wet thump and his hands come back to Stiles’ ass, thumbs pulling apart his cheeks.  Stiles bites his lower lip, exhales shakily as Derek takes a half step closer and slots his cock right against Stiles’ hole, slick with soap and hot to the touch.

“Fuck,” Stiles says.  “Do you like that?”

Derek nods against the back of his neck and thrusts his hips forward, sliding up the crack of Stiles’ ass.  “Yeah,” he chokes out.  “Yeah, Stiles, you’re—you’re so good.”  He speeds up his movement, fucking against Stiles’ hole over and over again, and Stiles can’t help but jerk himself off, breath caught in his throat because this is something so far out of his comfort zone but also exactly what he wanted.

He comes too fast, crying out weakly as he shoots against the wall of the shower, shuddering.  Derek is just as quick to follow though, gripping Stiles’ hips almost painfully tight as he covers Stiles’ lower back with his come.

He turns around immediately, wrapping his arms around Derek’s shoulders and kissing him fiercely.  Derek returns the favor, even grabbing Stiles’ thighs and lifting him, pressing him back against the tile and keeping him close.

“I’ve been practicing,” Stiles finally admits, lust still thrumming through his veins.  “Fingering myself.  I wanted to know what it felt like so that I could understand what I was doing to you—so that when I open you up, I can make you feel so fucking good, Derek.”

“Yeah?” Derek croaks, biting into Stiles’ mouth.  “You’ve been fucking yourself on those long fingers—I bet it felt fucking amazing.  I bet you came so hard that you couldn’t move after, just sitting in your come, stuffed full of lube.”

Stiles moans.  “ _Derek_.”  The other man ducks his head, sucking a mark into Stiles’ collarbone. “Let me do that to you.  Let me show you I can make you feel good.”

Before Derek can respond, the sound of his cell phone buzzing insistently against the bathroom counter distracts him.  “The food,” Derek says, and he sets Stiles down carefully before he darts from the bathroom, towel tied around his waist.


	2. ii

It isn’t actually surprising that Stiles finds the shoebox.  It’s hidden under Derek’s bed, totally obvious, and Derek knows it.  Derek watches from the kitchen while Stiles pulls it out, feels the air in the room change, hears Stiles’ heartbeat, smells his want.  But Derek looks away before Stiles can turn and look at him, continuing to cut potatoes.

Derek knows the box’s exact contents.  There are two cock rings, one well worn and one very much new.  There’s a prostate massager, a plug, and two dildos—one pink, one blue.  The blue one is two inches longer than the pink, but the pink one vibrates.

The smell that Stiles exudes is like a cloud all around the apartment now, and Derek has to shake off the wolf, focus on what he’s doing.  It’s the full moon tonight, and the whole pack is coming over for dinner.

“Don’t get your hopes up right now,” Derek reminds him.  “We have company.”

Stiles puts the lid on the box, puts it back under the bed.  “It’s only five.  They won’t be here for another hour and a half.”

“We’ll take longer than that,” Derek mutters, and Stiles’ breath hitches.  “I usually—on full moons, I use them.”

“Will you tonight?”

“Do you want me to?”

“The next best thing to fucking you is getting to watch you fuck yourself,” Stiles says, and his voice sounds a lot steadier than his heartbeat.  “I want to see, if you’re willing to show.”

Derek scraps the cut potatoes into a pot, goes to wash his hands.  “Go jerk off or something.  I don’t want the apartment to smell like sex when they show up.”

“Jesus,” Stiles mutters.  “Do you…  Do you have dental dams?”

He doesn’t even have condoms.  He’s about to ask why they would need anything like that when he realizes—“No.  I can pick some up tomorrow.”

“I’ll do it.”  Derek finally looks up at him, at his flushed face, the bulge in his shorts.  “I’m just gonna—use the bathroom.  I’ll be back before dinner.”

Derek does his best not to listen to Stiles’ frantic masturbating, tries to focus on what he’s doing.  All the same, it’s not like the kid is quiet.  Derek can hear him as he knocks into the towel rack, no doubt just leaning back against the door as he pulls himself out, licks his palm.  He makes soft, whining noises in his throat, and it isn’t long before his head hits back against the door and he comes, groaning deeply. 

Derek presses his hard on into the edge of the counter, keeps his head down while Stiles darts out of the apartment.  “Fucking teenagers,” he grits out.  They don’t care about taking their time with anything, especially jerking off.  He knows—he’s known for a while—that if he’s going to do this with Stiles, the kid needs to be trained.  He needs to learn how to be patient.  He needs to learn how not to come, even when he’s dying to.  Tonight might not be a terrible time to start.

Dinner goes smoothly.  They talk about the first weeks of their summer and the plans they have for the rest of it.  They make small talk about Mason and Liam’s college applications.  They eat and laugh and when the apartment is empty again but for Stiles, Derek feels lighter.  He loves his pack, wants to spend time with them, and this was exactly what he needed for a full moon.

And then there’s Stiles, who’s standing at the sink, rising dishes.  He keeps looking over his shoulder to where Derek is picking up the room.

“I’m gonna shower,” Derek says, taking pity on him.  “You coming?”

The dishes clatter in the sink like a bomb going off as Stiles practically sprints after him, knocking into the wall as on his way to the bathroom. 

“Don’t get excited,” Derek tells him as he pulls off his shirt.  Stiles is already working on his jeans.  “I have to wash.  And you—”  He jabs his forefinger into Stiles’ chest.  “You need to keep your hand off your dick.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Hey.  I mean it.”  He steps forward, kisses Stiles fiercely to try to get his attention.  “You don’t get to come until after I do.”

Stiles nods almost immediately, hands coming up to Derek’s stomach.  “Yeah, sure, of course.  Whatever you want.  You’re—you’re gonna let me eat you out, right?”

Derek valiantly ignores the way his cock throbs.  “As long as you let me wash up, yeah.”

He mostly ignores Stiles in the shower.  Stiles isn’t there the whole time anyway; he stands around and kisses Derek’s neck, touches his shoulders, his arms, his chest.  He tries to get his hand on Derek’s dick after a while, and that’s when Derek kicks him out.  He has to focus, and Stiles’ hands are possibly the most distracting thing ever.

When he comes out into the bedroom, Stiles is lying on his back in Derek’s big bed, cock half hard against his thigh, dental dam still in its packaging, lying on Stiles’ chest.  He sits up on his elbows, watching Derek enter.  Derek is expecting him to start rambling, to use his pretty words to seduce Derek all over again.  But when he speaks, it’s in a clipped tone, short and to the point.

“Get on your stomach.”

Derek doesn’t do this.  He’s hooked up with a handful of guys since his short-lived tussle with Jennifer Blake, but not a single one of them ever offered this.  Derek hadn’t even thought to ask for it—it’s too intimate, not something that a hook up goes looking for if they have a sense of decorum.  Of course, no one has ever said that Stiles has any kind of decorum.

As a wolf Derek can appreciate Stiles’ body in a different way than Stiles appreciates his.  To Derek, Stiles’ scent when he’s failed to shower or wear a clean T-shirt isn’t gross.  It’s a concentrated version of _him_ , full of spice that Derek would fucking bottle if he could.  But Derek knows it’s not the same for humans, and so when Stiles suggested this ordeal, Derek made sure to schedule in a thorough shower.  It’s only polite.  And it seems to have paid off.

Even though there’s eventually going to be a dental dam between Stiles’ mouth and Derek’s hole, Stiles starts out with his hands dragging down Derek’s back, palming his ass cheeks, spreading him.  He seems to just look at Derek’s opening for a long moment, causing Derek to bury his face in his arms, embarrassed for the first time since they started this.

Stiles brushes the pad of a finger along Derek’s rim, just feeling.  “Sorry,” he mutters when Derek flinches.  “If this is weirding you out or something—”

“No, it’s fine.”

“I just—I’ve never done this.  And porn is only good for so much.  And you seem to really…enjoy it.”

Derek feels his cheeks bloom with heat.  He’s never been ashamed of his proclivity to bottom.  He likes it, like the power dynamics that come along with it, likes that even though it seems like a submissive act, he’s taking all the power.  He likes the way it feels, is addicted to the heavy way his body orgasms when his prostate’s been milked, gets off hard at being filled to the brim.  He’s not going to apologize for it.

Stiles exhales slowly, spreading Derek’s cheeks with his thumbs again.  “So I’m definitely about to eat you out, but I want to make sure we establish like, you know, consent and stuff first.”

“I told you—”

“No, no, I know we’re good with this, but.”  He clears his throat.  “Can I finger you a little bit too?  Or is that off the table?”

Derek thinks about it.  Fingering can very quickly devolve into Stiles convincing Derek to go another step further, and if Derek lets him inside tonight, it’s going to be fast.  Fast and hard and probably really good, but too short, and not what Derek wants.  He lifts his head from his arms and looks over his shoulder, twisting his body so he can really look at Stiles.

He’s beautiful, caught in the moonlight from the windows, naked and blushing in splotches.  His cock is hanging heavy between his legs, and the way he’s perched over Derek’s ass makes him look positively filthy.

“We’re not fucking tonight,” Derek tells him, listening to the way Stiles’ heartbeat stays exactly the same, like he expected it.  “You can use a few fingers if you want but there’s not going to be any more than that, so don’t ask.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, nodding immediately.  “What about your, uh, toys?”

Derek has very fond memories of full moons past, of taking his time in prepping himself, of being so open that he could just slide his obscene blue dildo right inside.  It’s a boring toy in a lot of ways, no vibrations, no fancy tricks.  But it feels realistic, and with the proper angle, it never fails to destroy him in just the right way.  And then there’s the pink one, which requires less prep.  Its vibrations make him feel like his entire body is coming, like every cell in his body is riding the wave with him, and it too has a very special place in his heart.

“Maybe,” Derek responds, already rock hard just at the thought.  “Ask me after.”

“You can fucking bet on it.”

The fact that no one’s ever done this to Derek means that he has no fucking clue what it’s gonna be like.  He figures that, while the subject of plenty of many porn videos and a pretty interesting subject at that, it can’t be much more stimulating than fingering.  He’s vastly unprepared for what it feels like when Stiles just goes for it.

It’s nothing and everything at the same time, too shallow but teasing and stimulating and making all the nerve endings seize up with pleasure.  Stiles goes for it with a kind of abandon that makes Derek’s knees weak, glorying in the knowledge that this is something Stiles actively wants to do, something that makes him hot, that gets him hard.  He’s careful at first, taking his time, but after only a few minutes, it devolves into fast and eager and sloppy, driving his tongue into Derek, using his thumb on Derek’s perineum, systematically breaking him down.

“Okay, okay,” Stiles says after some time has passed.  Derek can hear Stiles’ heartbeat thundering.  “I’m gonna use my fingers now, okay?”

Derek only nods, spreads his knees a little wider.  The movement makes his cock drag against the sheets, the exact thing he was trying to avoid.  Once he has a taste he’ll only want more, rutting against the mattress like a dog—he has to steel himself against it, keep himself from moving by sheer willpower.

Stiles uses two fingers immediately, not even hesitating.  They’re slick with the lube that Derek heard him rummaging for, a little bit cold but not drastically so.  They breach him without trepidation or worry, with a confidence so sexy that Derek can’t help but sigh softly into the pillow he’s clutching.  His body opens so eagerly for Stiles, wanting these unfamiliar digits.  Stiles takes his time though, something that surprises Derek in the best way.  He takes his time to feel around inside, to let Derek adjust, but once he crooks his fingers towards Derek’s prostate, Derek knows that it was all a trick.  Stiles knows what he’s doing, and Derek is just there for the ride.

“Is it gonna freak you out if I keep using my mouth?” Stiles asks him, sounding breathless.  “Like, without the dam?”

Derek sucks in a greedy breath and lets himself move, lets himself fuck back onto Stiles’ fingers as he says, “Do it.”

Derek hates giving up control.  It’s why he likes to ride his hook ups, why he treats them like toys for when he needs something human, something made of flesh and blood to fuck himself with.  He’s a beta, no Alpha in him, and that’s the way he wants it in the pack, but here, like this—he can’t remember a time when he wasn’t the one with all the power.

Even when he started this with Stiles, he did everything.  He made the first move in Stiles’ bedroom, made sure that whatever he wanted from Stiles he took.  When he blows Stiles, when they rubbed off against each other in the shower that time, when _ever_ they’re together, Derek’s in charge. 

Right now, Derek has never felt more sexually powerless.  He’s completely bared open for Stiles, on his belly, arching his back for more.  He’s making soft noises that he can’t contain, rolling his hips on instinct, chasing the feeling that Stiles is giving him.  From the first brush of Stiles’ tongue inside of him, Derek is lost.

He’s in a haze, alternating between the pleasure that he’s being given and that he’s taking himself.  He can feel his claws perforating his pillow, feel the way his mouth is filled by his fangs, saliva dripping from his tongue.  Part of it is the moon, but it’s also just…Stiles.

When he comes, it surprises him.  He can’t remember the last time an orgasm actually snuck up on him but it happens now, a sudden overwhelming wave of pleasure appearing from what was previously just manageable sensations.  Now, though, Derek is groaning like death as he wets his sheets, fucking against the mattress as he comes and comes and comes.

It feels like it takes ages for him to return to his senses, to come back into clarity.  When he does, Stiles is still touching him, one hand on his left calf, his knees still straddling Derek’s ankles.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself, lifting his head to look at the mess he’s made of his pillow. 

“Der.”

He’s still come-dumb as he kneels, looking down at his sheets.  He obviously wasn’t expecting all of this, or he would’ve prepared better. 

“Hey, are you okay?”

He nods weakly, for some reason feeling like if he glances at Stiles, his whole world is going to come crashing down.

“Do you want, uh, something else?”

Usually on full moons Derek can come two or three times without feeling sated.  But right now all he feels is exhaustion.  So he shakes his head and, without explanation, steps off the bed and walks towards the hall.  The linen closet is always full of sheets and towels, extra blankets for when the pack sleeps over.  He grabs a set of sheets without looking and pads back to his bed.

He stops cold when he looks at Stiles.  The boy is still kneeling right where Derek left him, looking a little bit hurt.  Unexpectedly, he’s still hard, cock red and leaking where it’s pointed up towards his bellybutton.  He looks young right now, his face.  His body is grown, muscled, the body of a man.  But his face betrays his age, even makes him look younger than he really is, innocent and wide-eyed.  His mouth is red, his hair a mess, his right hand resting curled at his side, still shiny with lube.  Everything about him draws Derek in, makes it hard for him to breathe.

He drops the sheets on the floor by the headboard, walks around the bed.  Stiles follows Derek’s movements until he’s sitting at the foot of the bed, feet planted on the floor, hands in his lap.

“Scoot back,” Derek tells him, and he does.  Derek crawls onto his lap, winding his arms around Stiles’ shoulders, brushing his fingers through Stiles’ hair.  He drops his mouth to Stiles’ earlobe and listens to him gasp.

“Derek, I—”

“I know,” Derek dismisses.

“I waited, like you said.”

“I know,” he repeats.  “You did a great job.”

The boy’s blood floods to his cheeks.  He grins hugely, finally settles his left hand on Derek’s thigh.  “It’s kind of a bummer that my mouth was busy.  Some of my amazing dirty talk probably would’ve been fun, right?”

Derek hums, is suddenly very grateful that there’s no way for Stiles to eat him out and talk at the same time.  Derek is sure Stiles would be able to destroy the planet with that particular skill set.

“Don’t lie, you missed it a little bit.”

“I think I was too distracted to notice,” Derek says honestly.  He grabs Stiles’ right hand, picks up the leftover lube from his slick fingers and immediately takes his cock in hand.  Stiles shudders, mouth falling open.

It doesn’t take long.  He’s all keyed up from everything else, from having to wait.  Within a minute he’s shaking and coming, Derek capturing his mouth with a kiss and swallowing his moans.

It’s when Stiles starts kissing back that he realizes.  Stiles is gentle but eager all the same, gripping the back of Derek’s neck and kissing him with passion, with insistence, but it feels like affection more than anything else.  It’s not for sex, not for foreplay.  It’s like that other day when they just relaxed in Derek’s bed, no expectations, no promises.  It’s warm and nice and it makes Derek so, so happy.

He realizes, kissing Stiles, that there’s more here.  This isn’t just sex.  This is affection beyond that of friendship or even casual hook ups.  This is a longing to constantly be with someone, to make them happy, to build a life together.  This is something that Derek hasn’t felt in a long time.

They separate after a drawn out, lazy moment, after several more kisses.  Derek changes the sheets while Stiles cleans himself up in the bathroom.  When Stiles exits, Derek enters, steps in the shower to rinse off his thighs and the come drying in his body hair.  Usually he’s thrilled to wash off the scent of another person, to go back to just smelling like himself, like his pack.  He doesn’t try very hard right now though.  He does the minimum cleanup to sleep comfortably and then steps out from under the spray, crawls into bed with Stiles.

He falls asleep quickly, chest pressed against Stiles’ back, breathing in his scent and not worrying about a single thing.

* * *

 

“So,” Scott says, sitting down across from him in the booth at Marie’s.  “Go ahead.  Try to gross me out with a full recollection of everything you did with Derek.”

Stiles knew he wasn’t going to be able to keep it from Scott forever, what he and Derek have been up to, but he also wasn’t sure that Scott was going to be the first to know.  “Who told you?”

Scott’s eyebrows fly up his forehead.  “You’re kidding, right?  You kept looking at him all night, and everyone else left the loft but you didn’t even pretend.  You weren’t subtle.”  Scott takes a sip of the coffee Stiles ordered before Scott arrived, and when he sets the mug back down he’s grinning.  “So, is it just a full moon thing or are you guys, like, boyfriends now?”

Stiles shrugs.  “It’s just a…thing.  I guess.  We haven’t talked about it.”

“Really?”

“I mean we just haven’t gotten around to it yet.”  Stiles huffs, shaking off the thought.  “It’s good.  It’s fun.”

“So it’s casual.”

“Yeah, I mean.  Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“I’m not seeing other people,” Stiles clarifies.  Saying it out loud is strange because even though he knows that it’s true, it wasn’t really a conscious decision.  He’s not trying to see other people.  Why would he, when Derek’s the best he’s ever going to get?

“Is he?”

“No,” Stiles says confidently.  “He’s too picky.”

Scott snorts.  “Doesn’t seem like he’s picky enough sometimes.”

Stiles understands what he means without having to ask.  Kate Argent.  Jennifer Blake.  Derek doesn’t make great decisions with his heart.

“As long as you know what you’re doing,” Scott tells him.

“I do,” Stiles promises, but he isn’t sure anymore.

The thing is, he used to be.  He was so sure at the beginning that this was all just sex, that this thing with Derek was going to be about attraction and orgasms.  It changed the night Derek held him so tightly and kissed him for an hour without bothering to touch him anywhere but his back and his face.  It changed when Derek looked at him like he was something precious and wanted.  It changed so wholly that now Stiles doesn’t just feel excited about the sex he gets to have with Derek when they’re together.  Now he feels equally excited just to see him, to be in the same space as him, to soak up his presence and hear his voice. 

It’s not as though these feelings are anything more than a crush.  Derek’s an adult with a past and a lot of scars, and he may have a boring day job now and actual tenants in his building, but he’s still a fully formed person.  Most days Stiles doesn’t feel like fully anything.  Derek’s rough around the edges but he’s still too good for Stiles, still too good for Beacon Hills, for their tiny pack with all of its ghosts.  Derek’s too good, and Stiles is glad that he gets to have him for a little while, but eventually Derek will move on, and Stiles will get over it.

They move on from talking about Derek for most of the meal.  They talk about Kira briefly, about their plans to move in together when they go back to Davis for their second year.  Kira’s parents aren’t thrilled exactly, but they know Scott.  They trust him and they trust Kira and that’s apparently going to be enough.  That, plus the money they’ll save putting two bodies into a one-bedroom apartment.

When the bill comes, they both reach for their wallets as Scott asks, “Does your dad know?”  Up until that they had been discussing the full moon antics of Liam the previous night, and so Stiles quickly realizes what Scott’s referring to.

“No.  He doesn’t have to.  It’s my business.”

Scott shrugs.  “Okay.  Am I supposed to keep it a secret?”

Stiles ponders it.  Actively lying to his father has never been one of his favorite things.  When he can omit or evade those are best, and he tells the same to Scott.  “Look, I doubt he’s ever going to ask you if his son is boning Derek Hale, but on the off chance it comes up, don’t feel pressured to lie for me, okay?  I’ll deal with it.”

He sees his dad a lot.  Every day.  They have dinner together most nights and hang out with each other on weekends.  They went to the zoo just the other week, a rare father-son bonding day.  Stiles loves his father, but he isn’t sure that the guy is ready to hear about the non-relationship he’s in.

He goes straight from his breakfast with Scott back to Derek’s loft, where the man is sitting up in his kitchen, eating eggs while he reads the news off of his computer.  Derek glances over at him as he enters and goes back to his reading.

“I thought you had work,” Derek says, referring to the 10 hours a week Stiles spends volunteering at Deaton’s office.  “You said you were seeing Scott.”

“Yeah, we met up for breakfast.”

Derek hums.  “Right.  Post moon.  I forgot.”

“I didn’t know you had a shift,” Stiles mentions as he nods to Derek’s deputy uniform.  “I thought you usually take a few days off around the moon.”

“I’m working a double to make up for an absence last week.  I’m on patrol duty, so I’m just gonna be driving around all day with Parrish.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Absolutely thrilling,” Derek says deadpan.  He stands, sets his empty plate in the sink.  He grabs onto Stiles’ shirt, pulls him in and gives him a kiss that tastes like orange juice and cheesy eggs.  “I’ll be out until two but you can sleep here if you want.”

Stiles thinks about his bed at home, about his stale sheets and his video games.  He compares it to Derek’s giant TV and his wall of books.  “Yeah.  I’ll be here when you get back.”

“Good.”

“Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“Scott knows.  About this.”

Derek’s eyes betray nothing.  He nods shortly.  “He had to figure it out eventually.”

Stiles doesn’t know why he’s doing this, doesn’t know why the words are bubbling to the surface but he finds himself saying, “He thinks we should tell my dad.”

Derek blinks.  “Stiles, I have to go.”

“I know, I know.  Just—something for you to think about?” Stiles offers.  “Since you’ll have so much time on your hands today.”

“Sure.”  He kisses Stiles again, just as sweetly as before.  “Don’t wait up.”

* * *

 

It takes another four days before he and Derek spend any real time together.  Derek’s working and Stiles is doing summer things so when Derek gets home from work at five after a twelve-hour shift, Stiles has a plan.  He’s made steak, sautéed onions and mushrooms, made mashed potatoes with tons of butter.  He has Derek’s favorite beer and the silly Netflix show that he watches all queued up on the television.  He’s putting in a lot of effort because for a pair of people who have a lot of sex, Stiles is starting to forget what Derek’s hands feel like.  And he needs to change that.

When Derek enters his home, he looks first at Stiles, who is standing at the kitchen counter.  He is, in fact, wearing an apron and holding the wooden spoon he was using to taste the marinade for the mushrooms.  Derek glances to the dinner that Stiles has plated on the island and then back to Stiles.

Silent, he steps out of his shoes.  He’d changed at work so he’s in his street clothes, jeans and a T-shirt.  He looks tired but not exhausted, and his eyes are so dark that Stiles gets a feeling he should cover their dinner with aluminum foil.

He doesn’t protest when Derek charges towards him, lifts him with his hands under Stiles’ thighs, heaves him up again the kitchen counter, mere inches from the stove.  The first kiss is bruising in intensity, Derek holding him close and devouring his mouth.  It’s a hot, claiming kiss, and Stiles falls into it with a sort of desperation, so eager to be close to him.

Derek unties the apron from Stiles’ waist, lifts it over his head and tosses it across the kitchen so that it lands on the floor by the dishwasher.  He follows it with Stiles’ shirt, something Stiles gives freely, already grinning with the knowledge that his plan totally fucking worked.

Derek blows him when they get to the mattress, takes his time about it too.  It doesn’t matter though; it gives Stiles an opportunity to use his mouth, to tell Derek everything rattling around in his brain.

“—and the way you _taste_ , Derek,” he sighs, fisting his hand in Derek’s hair.  “Fuck, I want to eat you out forever, until you’re just a puddle in my hands.  I want to make you lose it like that every time, all the time.”

He loses his voice eventually, after the third time he almost comes and Derek pulls off.  After that, he can’t say much of anything, except _please_ and _Derek_.  After a fourth almost, Derek lifts his head and says, “Remember that time in the shower?”

There have been several times in the shower, but Stiles decides not to say that.  “Remind me,” is what he chooses instead, trying to calm his racing heart. 

There’s a playful glint in Derek’s eye and he moves to do just that.  Stiles finds himself suddenly on his stomach, being lifted onto his knees by a strong arm around his middle.  He finds Derek covering his back, pressing his fully hard cock right against his opening.

Stiles can’t help his whimper.  It’s been a while but he remembers—God, he remembers.  “Do you want to fuck me?” he finds himself asking, totally unprepared for the answer.

“No,” Derek says, not sounding grossed out or annoyed, just factual.  “Not right now.  I want…”  He drags his cock against Stiles’ hole, gives him the tiniest bit of friction.  “I want you to do this to me.”

Stiles groans, cock throbbing.  “Fuck fuck _fuck_ , Derek.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

It’s the closest his dick has ever been to being inside of Derek, all that Stiles has wanted since the first moment he mistakenly stormed in on Derek’s alone time.  He’s thrilled and terrified in equal measure because Derek’s said it himself: he’s picky.  He could have anyone he wanted, could convince anyone he wanted to put in the effort for this, but he’s chosen Stiles.  He’s letting Stiles see him like this, touch him like this, and even though Stiles is fucking tickled, he also feels like the weight of the world is on his shoulders.

There’s already a problem as soon as Derek moves off of him, as soon as they start to negotiate their position.  Stiles assumes that they’ll do it the same way Derek had just demonstrated.  Their heights being so similar, it’ll work perfectly.  But when Stiles tries to put Derek on his knees, Derek freezes up, the moment halting.

“I don’t usually,” Derek mutters, and it sounds like there’s a missing end to that sentence.

“We don’t have to,” Stiles says.  “We can—if you want, you can be on top of me.”

Derek’s tongue shows itself, dragging across his lips.

“Derek,” Stiles says, lifting a hand to touch his face, to following the trail of Derek’s tongue with his thumb.  “I can do this for you.”  The gravity of the words fills the room, makes Stiles’ chest heavy.  “I know I’m hyperactive and I goof off a lot and I do stupid things but this—this isn’t stupid.  You can trust me with this.  I want to—to make you understand that all I want is to make you feel good.  I don’t want you to be scared or uncomfortable or unhappy.  I want the exact opposite of all of that, actually.  Seriously, that…  That’s my entire goal, dude.  To make you feel safe and comfortable and happy.”

It feels like a lot.  It feels like too much.  The words compound the heavy air, make their eye contact something a lot more stressful than Stiles wanted.  But it’s important.  It’s important that Derek understand what Stiles wants here, that Stiles started this out of some vague desire to fuck Derek Hale and is now sitting in the man’s bed with an aching heart and a head full of ways to make Derek Hale feel special.

When Derek leans in, Stiles meets him halfway, kisses him as seriously as he knows how, hoping that all of his promises bleed through. 

It feels different after that.  When Derek settles on his hands and knees, when Stiles lubes up his cock and fits his hands on the globes of Derek’s ass—it doesn’t feel hurried or desperate like a _we-skipped-dinner-to-have-sex_ kind of fuck should in Stiles’ mind.  It feels big, momentous, even a little bit romantic. 

Even as it becomes filthy and hot and more than a little bit desperate, there’s always that sense of closeness bubbling under the surface, that sense of _right_ that wasn’t there before.  Stiles clings to it, holds onto it fiercely, so that he can point it out later and say, _See?  I took care of you.  I told you I would._

Derek comes with his dick in his hand and Stiles’ teeth digging into his shoulder.  He comes and Stiles realizes that that means he can too, so he does, crying out Derek’s name into his skin, eyes prickling as his throat tightens up.

Derek had the good sense to put down a towel, so the sheets are fine.  They stand in the bathroom with washcloths and kiss as they wipe each other off, crotches and thighs.

“Hungry?” Stiles asks, and Derek laughs into his throat, kisses his collarbone as he heads back towards their abandoned dinner.

* * *

 

They don’t fall asleep.  They eat and watch two episode of Derek’s TV show.  They crawl into bed with the moon high, both of them full of sleepy intent.  But instead of drifting off silently, they lie on their backs, their hands clasped between them, and talk.  In the dark they whisper back and forth to each other, first about Derek’s day at work, then about Stiles’ time on Amazon, ordering a bunch of his textbooks for the next semester.

The topic moves on to Derek’s time at college.  A long four years, he calls it, made up of depressive episodes and angry shouting matches with Laura.  When Laura came back to Beacon Hills, it was because Derek had finally finished his degree, and she thought they might be able to make a home together again.

Somehow the next jump made is towards Stiles’ childhood, his dream of owning a dog.  He wanted a golden retriever, the big happy dog from all of the commercials, the ones who looked like they were always smiling, who played fetch with outward joy and jumped on their owners with so much love.  From dogs, they move on to TV cartoons, then just TV, then movies, then shitty Batman remakes—and it just keeps going and going. 

Eventually they’re not on their backs anymore.  They turn towards each other after a little while, get closer and closer with each passing minute.  At some point Stiles gets up to pee, and he comes back to bed to find Derek sitting up, pulling up a video on his phone of something he had mentioned earlier.  So they sit up with their backs against the pillows, knees pulled up as they talk.

They talk, for the first time, about Stiles’ mom.  He cries a little bit, and Derek pulls him in without hesitation, talks about _his_ mom.  Then he cries a little bit too.  They talk about the best friend Stiles had before Scott, the girl who Jennifer killed a few years ago, the girl Stiles would’ve otherwise lost his virginity to.  They talk about Derek’s first time, without detail, and Stiles gets the feeling that Derek hasn’t told anyone this.  Ever.

Around three in the morning, Stiles talks about Malia.  He knows how weird it is, that this girl appeared out of nowhere and turned out to be Derek’s cousin, that she was angry and lacking a lot of human sense but always eager to help the people she loved.  He talks about how angry he was when Malia left, how he thought for sure he would never get over her.  It’s been over a year now, and he still sometimes wants to cry when he thinks of her.

Derek talks about Cora in response, about his failings as a big brother.  He talks about his stupid willingness to trust his traitorous uncle, his weaknesses when it comes to his family.  He says all of this and more to his knees, hand still clenched in Stiles’, but eyes seemingly intent on the shape of his left patella and the hair on his tanned skin.  That’s when Derek tells him about the money, about the 25.8 million dollars he has sitting in property, investments, stocks, and bonds.  He talks about how much he hates that money and how he wants to use it for something better, for something that will make him happy, something that doesn’t remind him that he got it because his entire family is dead.

Stiles kisses the back of his hand afterwards, unfolds his fingers and kisses his palm and the tips of each of his fingers.  He kisses up Derek’s forearm and shudders through a breath before he changes the subject to something brighter.  When he starts talking about Scott, he can feel Derek relax, grateful for the reprieve.  So he talks about their years of friendship, their bond.  He tells stupid stories about the things they got into, they mistakes they made along the way, the memories they built.  He laughs so hard at one point that he cries again, and Derek kisses away these tears with a special kind of softness.

They talk about innocuous things.  They go back and forth, trading answers to any noun that can be preceded by the word _favorite_.  Color, flavor, song, movie, food, joke, quote, book, city, childhood toy, fabric, smell—anything that springs to Stiles’ mind, he asks it.  They talk about trips they’ve taken, where they’ve been.  They ponder where they’d like to go next, where they might head if they ever decide to escape.

The windows in the loft face the east, so when six comes around, Stiles can see the way the sky lightens, the sun barely peeking up over the horizon.  He doesn’t comment on it, and neither does Derek.  They just keep talking.

At 7:30, Derek’s alarm goes off.  They get up.  Derek takes a shower while Stiles makes eggs.  They sit at the island and eat eggs and toast, drink coffee.  They keep talking.

When Derek leaves the apartment for work at 8:45, they stand in the doorway and kiss for a long time, like coming down after a high, like resettling into your life after a long vacation.  At 8:52, Derek leaves, and Stiles stands around, waiting for nothing.

The text comes in a few minutes after nine, when Derek has no doubt settled in behind his desk at the station, said hello to the Sheriff and the other deputies around him. 

**From Derek (9:06 AM):**

**Thank you.**

That’s all it says, but it’s more than enough.  Stiles is sure that he should be the one thanking Derek, but it doesn’t matter now.  He throws the curtains across the wall of windows and squirms into Derek’s bed, where he types back, **Any time** , before promptly falling asleep.


	3. iii

For as many times as Derek has seen the Sheriff after spending a night with his son, it’s after their night of sleeplessness that it’s the hardest for Derek not to say anything.  He finds the words on his tongue half a dozen times throughout the day, has to bite down to keep himself from telling the man everything, from telling him that he has a remarkable son with a big heart.  It’s after that night that Derek suddenly feels that their big secret is dirtier than ever, because it’s more.  It’s more than just sex.

Before this, they weren’t friends.  They cared about each other in a pack kind of way, risked their lives for each other over and over.  Derek has always thought Stiles was smart, attractive, a good person, but they never really bonded.  They never really had a chance.  And so then there was sex, which brought them together with an easy intimacy, made them closer.  It sealed a little bit of space between them, made their relationship stronger than it had been before in a lot of ways, weaker in others.  Now, though, there’s not a single crack in whatever has spackled them together.  They’re stuck, and Derek feels overwhelmed in the best way.

He comes home to find Stiles on his couch, passed out with a book on his chest.  Derek sets it aside, careful to keep it face down with the page saved, and drops the food he picked up on his way home on the coffee table beside it. 

It only takes a few minutes for Stiles to rouse, smelling the food.  He sits up silently, scooting into Derek’s space.  “What is it?” he asks with a thick tongue.

“Thai, from the place in Beacon Valley.”

“Holy shit.”  He grabs Derek’s shirt and kisses him, openmouthed and enthusiastic, as a thank you. 

Even though Stiles slept most of his day away, he still crawls into bed with Derek when the sun is in the middle of setting.  He curls around Derek’s back, sticks his left arm under Derek’s pillow and his right around Derek’s middle.

“Your arm’s gonna fall asleep,” Derek reminds him.

Stiles, eyes already closed, breath coming deeper, says, “Worth it.”

* * *

 

It becomes July.  Derek didn’t even really notice but it’s suddenly July and Stiles’ summer is halfway through.  In five weeks, he’ll return to San Francisco, back to his life of homework and parent-free weekends.  He’ll go back to the school the way he first went, gnawing at the bit to get out of Beacon Hills, to be free somewhere else.

Derek tries not to let it bother him, the knowledge that this has to end.  He knew that at the beginning.  There’s been no surprise, no broken promise.  All the same, it’s going to disrupt Derek’s routine, going to take away a part of his life that he had been enjoying, so it—sucks.  More than a little.

He tries to make up for the lack of time by keeping Stiles close.  They have a lot of sex, exchange a lot of blowjobs, grind up against each other on the couch, against a wall, anything they can think of.  (Derek is still unsure when he should let Stiles inside.  At this point it feels like an inevitability, one Derek actively _wants_.  But he also isn’t going to ignore the constant reservations about sex that he has pounding away in the back of his skull.)

When they’re not having sex, the time they spend together feels full of promise.  Stiles has slept in Derek’s bed every night for the past two weeks.  He goes out with his friends in the day, sees his dad, _does_ things, but he always comes back for Derek.  They eat dinner together.  They go to bed together.  It’s ridiculously domestic, and Derek feels himself looking forward to it every time he gets in his car and heads home from work.

A whole bunch of little things lead up to Derek finally making a decision.

* * *

 

First it’s the nightmare.  Derek doesn’t get them as much anymore, nearly cured with therapy and a little bit of repression.  Derek was pretty sure Stiles didn’t either, but then he’s being startled awake in the middle of the night by Stiles gasping for air, shooting up in bed and shouting Scott’s name.

Once he’s awake, he doesn’t wait a second before burrowing into Derek’s chest, wrapping his arms around him.  “Sorry,” he says into Derek’s collarbone.

“Don’t be.”

“It’s been a while since I had one,” Stiles tells him.  “I used to—I would get them at school sometimes so I started taking sleeping pills.  That helped for a little while.”

Derek strokes his hand up and down Stiles’ back.  “What made them go away?”

Stiles’ voice is heavy with sleep when he says, “You.  You started showing up in the dreams, fighting off the monsters, helping me get rid of the nogitsune.  I stopped being afraid to go to sleep because I knew you would come to my rescue.”

Derek blinks at the ceiling.  “Oh,” he says.  “I…  Glad I could help.”

Stiles is quiet.

“Stiles?”

He’s already asleep again, mouth open against Derek’s skin.  Derek laughs softly as he drifts off too.

* * *

 

Then there’s Scott.  Scott sticks around after a pack meeting, standing in the middle of Derek’s loft, arms crossed over his chest.  Stiles is downstairs with Lydia, giving her something that he left in his car.

“I’d rather not get a lecture,” Derek says.

“Who’s lecturing?”

Derek sighs softly.  “Look, you’re my Alpha and he’s your best friend, but—”

“Shut up, Derek,” Scott says, and Derek does.  “You’re good.  You’re a good person.  You’re a good pack member.  You’re _good_.  Do you know that?”

Derek looks to the floor, feeling chastised instead of complimented.

“Derek.  You’re also really good _for_ _him_.  I mean that.”

“Scott—”

Scott brushes him off.  “Let me finish.  You’re a good person, Derek.  You try really hard and you care about your pack and you don’t always make the best decisions, but you learn from everything you do.  You’re smart and capable and when you trust someone, you really trust them.  I admire that.  You’re good to Stiles.  You make him feel good.  I always knew you guys were going to take care of each other, but I didn’t know it was going to be like this.  I’m—surprisingly okay with it, considering the shit we went through in high school.”  He steps forward, puts his hand on Derek’s shoulder.  “Don’t second guess yourself, okay, man?”

* * *

 

When the Sheriff corners him in the break room at the station, Derek wishes he had his cell phone on him to check his texts, see if Stiles has sent a warning.  Because it feels—not casual, the way John Stilinski closes the door and leans against it, watching as Derek fills his mug with coffee.

“You’re twenty-five, aren’t you, Derek?”

Six years older than Stiles, a nineteen-year-old kid with ADHD and a habit towards werewolves that suggests a fondness for disaster.  “Yes, sir.”

“Okay.”

Derek clears his throat.  “Was that all?”

“Stiles told me everything.  Well,” John chuckles, “after a little convincing.”

“Sir—”

“I told him that I’m not crazy about him sleeping over with a guy every night for two weeks running, no matter who he is.”  It’s actually been almost three weeks at this point.  Derek decides not to mention that.  “That includes you, Derek, the same way it would include a kid Stiles’ age.”

Derek swallows tightly.  “I’m sorry,” he says politely.  “We shouldn’t have kept it from you.”

“Yeah, well, you did.  So there’s that.”  John sighs, looks Derek pointedly in the eye with an expression so fatherly, it aches.  “Stiles told me that you two really care for each other.  He said this was something he’d hate me for taking away from him.  He said your bond is—very important to him.”

It could’ve been that Stiles was using the words he knew his father wanted to hear in order to placate him, to make him think that their rendezvous have less to do with sex and more to do with sweet whispers and handholding.  But it could also be that Stiles really meant it, means it, thinks that Derek is important.

“It’s important to me too,” Derek says.  “We do—we care about each other.”

The Sheriff nods easily, like that was what he expected to hear.  “Okay,” he says, and he leaves the room with Derek still standing against the counter, heart hammering in his ears.

* * *

 

Finally, there’s the brochure.  It appears innocuously, left on Derek’s coffee table when he arrives home from work.  Stiles is out with Lydia and is having dinner with his dad tonight, so Derek picked up food on his way home.  He grabs a soda from his fridge and plops down on the couch, picks up the slip of paper that Stiles no doubt left sitting there.

It’s an advertisement geared towards SF State students, opportunities for cheap apartments close to the school, people who give student discounts.  For a long moment, as Derek is unwrapping his food, he assumes it’s something that Stiles was looking into during downtime, considering where to live.  But then Derek remembers that Stiles is working on campus this year to supplement his housing bill.  The tech department is going to waive half of his housing fee, so he’s still going to be living in the dorms.

This brochure, it’s a question.  It’s an offer actually, handing Derek an opportunity to follow him to college.  This is easier than just asking because Stiles can make up a bunch of excuses if it doesn’t work, if Derek says no.

But Derek doesn’t have an answer.  So he picks up the brochure and puts it in the bottom drawer of his nightstand, for further consideration.

* * *

 

Stiles begins his day at Dr. Deaton’s clinic, where he cleans out cages, feeds the box of newborn puppies that was left on the doorstep overnight, and holds down no fewer than five cats while Deaton gives them shots.

Scott is there with him at least, which makes his volunteer hours more entertaining.  When he’s done, he decides to act on a whim.  He picks up sandwiches from the deli downtown and then heads to the station, where he is greeted by a dozen of his father’s coworkers, all of whom ask about his school and how his summer is going.  By the time he escapes to where Derek’s desk is, the man is waiting for him, eyebrows high.

“Extra mustard,” Stiles says, handing him his sandwich.  “Gene said he makes these for you at least once a week.”

“Gene likes to share my secrets.”

“Yeah?  What else does he know about you?”

Derek smirks, grabs a chair from the empty desk behind his and brings it over for Stiles.  They sit together, knees touching, and eat while Derek finishes up some paperwork.  Stiles is still there a half hour later when his father shows up, breezing past Derek’s desk to his office.  Once he’s through the door he pauses, turns, and looks at Stiles.

“Where’s my sandwich?” he asks.

Stiles grabs the paper bag and follows his dad into the office, glancing back over his shoulder at Derek as he goes.

“Thanks,” his dad says, accepting the food.  He sits behind his desk, wiggling the mouse of his computer to make the screen come to life.  “How’s Scott?”

“He’s fine.”

“Hm.”  He gestures his head out towards where Derek is sitting.  “You staying over again?”

“Yeah.”  He decides not to tell his father about the brochure he left on Derek’s coffee table, about it mysteriously turning up the next morning in Derek’s nightstand while Stiles was looking for his phone charger, about the possibility of Derek following him to San Francisco in the fall.  Instead, he chews the inside of his mouth for a second before saying, “Thanks for not, you know, making this hard on him.  He likes his job.  He likes you.”

John shrugs.  “Hiding a secret relationship with my son from me is a funny way of showing it.”

“Dad.”

“I’m just saying, Stiles.  It makes me think that he thinks he’s doing something wrong.”

“Well he isn’t,” Stiles mutters.  “You know Derek.  He has a fucked up guilt complex, thinks everything he does is wrong until someone comes along to tell him he’s fine.”

John huffs at him for the swearing but Stiles doesn’t apologize.  He stands, hand on the doorknob.

“Thank you,” he says seriously, “for letting me stay with him.”

“Yeah, well,” John sighs, sounding more defeated than Stiles has ever heard him.  “You could do a lot worse.  And so could he.”

Stiles has a few more errands to run.  He told Derek he’d go grocery shopping and double check all the wards on the south end of the city today, so when he heads out to say goodbye to Derek, he expects it to be brief and cordial.  He’s not under any disillusions, knows that this could all still fall apart, that Derek could cut ties with him in a few weeks and barely look at him for the rest of his life.  So he’s not expecting Derek to publically acknowledge their thing, to inform all of his coworkers that he’s got something going with the boss’ son.  He’s not expecting Derek to pull him close, one hand very low on his back.  He’s not expecting Derek to kiss him, short and sweet, and tell him, “See you at home.”

But Derek does all of that, his eyes shining, and Stiles leaves in a kind of stupor, lips still tingling.

* * *

 

Stiles has no idea that it’s going to happen.  He goes over to Derek’s, eats dinner with him, sits on the couch while they watch TV.  It’s their nightly routine.  Stiles is already in sweats, ready to go to bed when Derek comes back from his shower and rejoins Stiles on the couch, sitting as close to him as he can possibly get.

It starts out slow, Derek squirming closer and closer, Stiles laughing and readjusting their position, until Derek is on top of him, kissing him all deep and seductive.  They stay there for a long while, grinding like teenagers, Derek kissing down his neck and groping his thighs, hitting all of the points of Stiles’ body that make his dick stand at attention.  Stiles squeezes his ass and bites his shoulder, uses all the tricks he knows too.  It’s fun because it doesn’t feel serious, just feels like a good, easy romp.

After they’ve been making out for what must be almost an hour, Stiles lets his head loll to the side, giving Derek an opportunity to nuzzle under his throat, kiss and lick and touch him as he sees fit.  His eyelids are heavy with sleep, but he isn’t ready to stop yet.

“You feel really good,” he sighs, arching into where Derek is big and hard.  “Fuck, Derek.”

“So do you,” Derek says into his Adam’s apple.  He sits up on his knees, moving back from Stiles.  “Let’s go to bed.”

“But we’re already here,” Stiles protests, dragging his hands down Derek’s bare sides.  He’s so beautiful, tan and toned.  Stiles can’t resist touching him as often as humanly possible.  “C’mon, let’s just do the teenager thing and rub up against each other until we come in our shorts.  Isn’t that fun?”

Derek smiles.  “Yeah,” he says.  “But I have something else in mind.”

So Stiles stands with him, lets himself be led to Derek’s giant bed.  They stop at the side, arms around each other, kissing all slow and sweet.  Stiles tries to nudge Derek down onto the mattress so that they can go back to what they were doing, but Derek doesn’t let himself be moved.

“C’mon,” Stiles teases, poking Derek’s chest.  “What’s the hold up?”

Derek flattens his hands against Stiles’ back, kisses him.  When he breaks the kiss, he doesn’t pull back very far, so Stiles can still feel his lips as he says, “I want you to fuck me.”

For a long moment, Stiles doesn’t move.  He’s trying to unscramble the words that Derek just said, trying to put them in an order that makes sense.  His heart is pounding, his head light, his stomach twisting.  Derek Hale finally wants Stiles to fuck him, and it’s the first time in weeks that Stiles feels at all unsure about doing exactly that.

From the first moment this thing began, Stiles was desperate to get inside Derek.  Now, though—now Stiles understands.  Now Stiles knows what Derek wants, and Stiles isn’t sure that he’s qualified of giving it, that he can make it as good as Derek deserves.

“I’ve never,” he says stupidly, because obviously Derek knows that.  “I mean not with a guy.”

Derek lifts one shoulder, drops it.  “You know what you’re doing.”

“Are you sure?”

“You told me I could trust you with this,” Derek reminds him.  “And I do.”

Stiles takes half a step back, looks Derek in the eyes.  “But we’ve waited so long—are you really sure?  Totally sure?”

Derek nods, grabs Stiles’ hands and folds their fingers together.  “I was putting it off because it scared me,” Derek tells him.  “Having sex with somebody I never have to see again is one thing—it doesn’t matter if they disappoint me.”

“But having sex with someone you know isn’t quite as casual,” Stiles finishes.  “I—I know I’m not great at everything, I haven’t _done_ everything—”

Derek shakes his head, cutting Stiles off.  “It doesn’t matter.  I thought it did, but I realized that…”  He exhales, drops his gaze.  “I realized that sex doesn’t have to be perfect every time,” Derek says, casually looking down at their hands.  “And even if it sucks, it’s still perfect because it’s with you.”

Stiles’ heart lurches into his throat.  “Wow,” he says numbly.  “That…  That’s really romantic.  Like rom-com levels of sap here, Derek.  I’m about to swoon.”

Derek opens his mouth and Stiles steps forward, shaking his head.

“No, no, I’m being serious.  Where was all of this being stored?  Do you spend your days off watching Nicholas Sparks movies?  Did you pick up a Jane Austen novel last time you went to the bookstore?”

“Stiles.”

“This is the pattern, Der,” Stiles reminds him.  “The romantic lead who began as an angst-ridden loner confesses his true feelings and the object of his affections takes a second to chew him out before kissing the hell out of him.  It’s very traditional.”

Derek’s ears are the slightest bit red.  Stiles loves them.

“I’m gonna do that now,” Stiles says.

“Do what?”

“Kiss the hell out of you.”

Derek kisses him back, holding him so tightly that he gets lifted off the ground a bit, laughing into Derek’s mouth.  After that, they fall into bed easily, tugging on their minimal clothing as they squirm across the mattress.

Once they’re naked, Stiles winds up on top of him, hands dragging down Derek’s thighs, mouth busy trailing down Derek’s chest.  He can feel Derek’s hands in his hair, on his shoulders, feel Derek’s heart beating under his lips—they’re so close to each other and Stiles only wants to be closer.

“Like this?” Stiles asks, looking up at his face.  “Or—?”

Derek nods.  “Yeah, like this.”

It’s hard to keep his hand from shaking just a little bit.  His whole body is on edge, flooded with too many emotions at once.  But once his fingers are slick with lube and he’s pressing two into Derek, once Derek locks eyes with him as his cheeks flush, mouth hanging open, Stiles isn’t quite so nervous anymore.  It’s hard to be scared when he’s so fucking crazy for the guy lying beneath him.

It’s so much more than Stiles ever expected.  Everything feels more extreme, more intense than anything else they’ve done.  Derek’s hand is twisted in his hair and they’re kissing, nonstop, barely pulling away to breathe, while Stiles spreads him.  He tries to be thorough without teasing, tries to make sure Derek is comfortable without taking forever.  By the time Derek bites into Stiles’ lip and tells him to finish up, it feels like hours have passed, and they’re surrounded by a fog of excitement, manifested as racing hearts and sweaty skin.

* * *

 

Derek can’t remember the last time he let himself just lie there during sex, the last time he had enough faith in someone to just relax, let himself be fucked and trust that it would be exactly what he wanted.  But it’s Stiles.  And that’s everything Derek wants.

It’s not as though he’s completely passive.  He hitches his legs around Stiles’ waist when he’s ready, gets the ball rolling.  He gives Stiles a few strokes with a lube-slick palm, watches as his face contorts, teeth sinking into his bottom lip.  His eyes are wide open, looking straight at Derek.  Derek can’t remember ever having kept his eyes open during sex, not before Stiles.

Derek pulls him down to kiss, heart thudding in his chest.  He can feel Stiles’ cockhead between his cheeks, waiting.  He can feel the brush of Stiles’ fingers as he takes himself in hand, ready to guide himself inside of Derek’s open body.

“Do it,” Derek pants, resting his left hand on Stiles’ chest, squirming against him.  His cock is pressed against Stiles’ stomach, relishing in the slippery friction of his skin.  “Go slow, so you can feel it.”

“Feel it?” Stiles repeats, voice wavering.  His gaze is low, watching his own cock as he lines it up.  “Fuck, Derek, I’m never gonna be able to _stop_ feeling you.  You’re in my blood now, Jesus— _fuck_.”  He’s pushed in, just a bit.  He’s bare and Derek would bet everything he owns that Stiles has never forgone a condom, never taken that risk.  It’s probably overwhelming, probably a lot, and Derek watches his face, watches his mouth fall open and his eyes flutter as he slides in further.

He feels good.  Stiles feels good inside of him, probably only three or so inches in at first, and then he’s cursing and sliding in all the way, lifting his hand to rest on Derek’s thigh, to hold him closer.  Derek can barely focus on Stiles’ touch, too busy sorting through all of the sensations, the smells, the sounds. 

Stiles’ heartbeat, thick and loud in his ears, exposing his excitement, his fear.  Stiles’ scent, rich with lust, peppered with a kind of fond affection that makes Derek want to kiss him.  So he does, and he tastes the inside of Stiles’ mouth all over again, devouring him.  Then there’s the heavy sensations between Derek’s legs, when Stiles is hot and thick inside of him, filling him up.  He hasn’t moved yet—it’s probably only been seconds.  Derek can’t concentrate on something as silly as time right now.  There’s his own cock, trapped between their stomachs, flushed red and already pearling up with little beads of pre-come as his balls fill and throb for release.

And there’s a million more things that Derek could focus on—the weight of Stiles on top of him, the angle of his hips and the way their thighs bump up against each other, the pressure of Stiles’ mouth on his jaw, the way the temperature of the room rises, the way the whole loft seems to be filling with the scent of sex.  Derek could focus on the drag of the sheets underneath him, the way he moves against them as Stiles pulls out and thrusts back in, the way his head shifts on the pillows and the crown of his head bumps against the headboard as he bares his throat.  Then, very importantly, there’s what it _really_ feels like.

Stiles.

Stiles, hard and slick and inside of him, fucking him, making love to him.  Usually for Derek everything is a mixture of fast and slow—he goes fast but he makes it take forever, makes himself wait and wait and wait to come until the moment blows his mind.  Now, though, Stiles is totally in control.  Stiles has established a pace all of his own, rocking into Derek like the back and forth shift of a boat in the middle of the ocean.  It’s steady, good, and Derek lets himself fall into it, lets himself take and take and take it.

Stiles hasn’t spoken much.  He’s said Derek’s name a few times, usually followed by a curse word.  Derek doesn’t usually talk, not really, but a sound is forced out of him when Stiles lifts his hips, angles him so that he’s driving into him from higher above.  He can get deeper and he can brush right against Derek’s prostate with every fucking movement.  He moans without meaning to, face going red as Stiles keeps up his even timing, even as Stiles’ mouth betrays how destroyed he feels.

“Fuck, Derek.  You’re so good—you’re _so good_.  I—I want you so much, all the time, want to be with you all the time.”

There’s something terribly explicit about the picture they make, about Stiles keeping Derek’s knees up around his ribcage, about Stiles’ flushed chest and rolling hips, about Stiles’ messy hair and sweaty forehead, his blown pupils and kiss-red mouth.  It’s sex, of course it’s explicit—but compared to the words Stiles is saying, it looks like the highest form of debauchery.

“I want to come home to you every night and wake up next to you every morning and be able to kiss you every day,” Stiles tells him, voice cracking in the middle of his sentence.  He huffs, darting down to press his mouth to Derek’s.  “You’re so good to me, Derek.  I want to be good to you—I want to be everything you deserve and so much more.  I want to make you feel _loved_ , Derek.”

He shudders through a breath then, grips Derek’s thighs harder.

“Fuck,” he says, softer now, and Derek can see it.  Derek can see it in his eyes, on his lips, see that he’s about to say it—and Derek is torn between wanting to hear it and the very sudden knowledge that if he does hear it, he might burst into tears.  So he kisses Stiles fiercely, captures his mouth before he can say the words, doesn’t let him go.

It’s too easy to come.  He could wait if he wanted to, could drag it out, but with Stiles right here it’s so easy to just let himself be touched, let himself be fucked.  Stiles is making it good for him, grinding against his prostate with long, rolling thrusts, pulling on his cock just the way he likes.  Stiles is playing his body perfectly, and Derek doesn’t want to wait.

“I’m gonna,” he tries to say, but Stiles is kissing him so sweetly.  He’s silenced, and he doesn’t mind one bit, clinging desperately to Stiles as he freezes and loses his breath, as he feels his whole body tense in preparation, as he comes and comes, gasping at the ceiling.

* * *

 

Derek makes arrangements behind Stiles’ back.  It’s not meant to be sneaky or devious; it’s meant, first and foremost, to be a surprise.  A pleasant one.  So he doesn’t say anything about it for weeks, thinking that he’s a genius, the best almost-boyfriend in the world.

He goes away one weekend to finalize everything, sign paperwork, check it all out.  When he comes back on Sunday night, Stiles is in his bed.  They make love that night, and Stiles holds him when they fall asleep.

Stiles’ dad has a barbeque the night before he goes back to school.  Derek is there before anyone else, stands nearby all night.  They even hold hands for a while, earning a long hard stare from Lydia and a flustered question from Liam.  Derek doesn’t know if they have a label for what they are, if it’s official now, but it doesn’t quite matter.  He knows what he feels. 

Up in Stiles’ bedroom that night, they blow each other up against the door, make out on Stiles’ bed, rolling around in the sheets.  Derek knows that Stiles is thinking of it like a last hurrah for the summer, the last time they’ll see each other for a few weeks at least, and Derek doesn’t correct him.  Derek holds him and kisses him and falls asleep beside him, inhaling his scent.

The next afternoon, Derek is standing in a big apartment building a five minute drive from Stiles’ on-campus suite that he shares with a guy named Bender.  It overlooks Lake Merced, comes furnished, and the basement has a gym and a spa.  It’s not cheap, but it’s beautiful, and there’s enough room for two.

He left a card in Stiles’ backpack, right next to his wallet so he couldn’t possibly miss it when he stopped for lunch or something on the way to campus.  The card is simple, white cardstock, with only the address of Derek’s apartment written on it, followed by _6 PM._ Sure enough, at 6:03, Stiles is knocking on the door, and Derek can’t stop his giant grin as he pulls it open.

Stiles blinks at him.  “Hi,” he says.

Derek steps back.  “Come in.”

For a long moment Stiles says nothing.  Then, “This is stupid.”

Derek smiles despite himself, shrugging.  “It’s really not.”

“ _This,_ ” Stiles says, gesturing around, “is phenomenally stupid, Derek.  When I thought about you moving to San Francisco with me, I figured you’d get a dinky apartment off campus and—and—”

“Stiles.”  Derek steps closer, cups Stiles’ jaw.  “I can afford it.  And it’s not far from your campus at all; besides, you have a car.  _And_ ,” he adds, dropping a kiss on Stiles’ mouth, “I got a job.”

Stiles squints.  “You got a job.  But you have a job—”

“I can’t commute two hours every day to work in Beacon Hills, Stiles.”

“You got a job in San Francisco.”

Derek nods.  “I have some contacts in the city from my college days.  One of them runs an art trade and he said he’d pay me to come in three days a week and do research for him.”

“When were you planning on telling me?”

“It was meant to be a surprise.”

“But all of your money—you shouldn’t use it on this,” Stiles sighs.  “You’re supposed to use it on yourself.”

“This is me using it on myself,” Derek assures him. He winds an arm around Stiles’ middle, draws him close.  “This is me using it on getting to spend time with you.  Besides, I’m planning on saving most of it for when we’re middle aged and our kids are in college and we want to travel the world.  For the rest of my expenses, I’ll use my paychecks, and when we move in together when you’re done with college, we can get a smaller place and pay for it together.”

Stiles’ mouth falls open.  “I…  I don’t know what to say.”

It’s a lot to throw at him at once, but Derek needs him to know.  Derek needs him to know that he’s _in_ this, that he wants Stiles not just now, but always.

“I mean it,” Stiles says.  “I seriously don’t know what to say.  You’re serious about this?”

“Completely.”

“Wow.”  Stiles sucks in a breath, shaking his head.  “I can’t believe it.  You totally love me.”

Derek cracks a smile.  “Stiles.”

“You are totally in love with me.  And you let me think—for weeks—that we were just going to end the summer without working out what this is—well I’ll tell you, Derek, that this is fucking real, okay?”  He fists his hands in Derek’s shirt.  “This, you and me.  We’re in this.  We’re in love.”

“Yes.”

“Wow.”

“I know.”

“Have you ever had a boyfriend before?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

“I’m sure we’ll be able to figure it out.”

“We seem to be doing a pretty good job already.”  Stiles is beaming, teeth shining.  “Wow.  I love you.”

Derek’s heart surges, lodging in his throat so that his voice is thick when he says it back.  He can taste the emotion on his tongue when he pulls Stiles in to kiss, and later, when they make it back to his bed, he can feel where Stiles has made a home inside of his chest, carved out a space and declared it his own.  And Derek—Derek is all too happy to surrender it to him.

**Author's Note:**

> "Darling, your soul fits where  
> mine feels empty."
> 
> "and dear, your heart exists  
> where mine feels lonely."
> 
> "like the curve of you fits  
> perfectly in the curve of me."
> 
> Puzzle Pieces -Mustafa Tatton & Maysa Mesto


End file.
